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1/13Is anyone safe?

‘A wonderful

psychologicalthriller’

THE SUN

Is anyone safe?

‘A wonderful

psychologicalthriller’

THE SUN

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  THE

HIDING

PLACE

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Tis novel is entirely a work of fiction.Te names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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A Paperback Original 2015

1

Copyright © John Burley 2015

 John Burley asserts the moral right tobe identified as the author of this work 

A catalogue record for this book isavailable from the British Library

ISBN-13: 978-0-00-755950-3

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For my parents, Dennis and Cari,

who have given me all of themselves, always

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Part One

Arrival

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Chapter 1

Menaker State Hospital is a curse, a refuge, a place of im-

prisonment, a necessity, a nightmare, a salvation. Originally

funded by a philanthropic endowment, the regional psychi-

atric facility’s sprawling, oak-studded campus sits atop a bluff on

the eastern bank of the Severn River. From the steps of the hospi-

tal’s main administration building, the outline of the U.S. Naval

Academy can be seen where the river enters the Chesapeake Bay

some two and a half miles to the south. Tere is but one entrance

to the facility, and the campus perimeter is demarcated by a

wrought-iron fence whose ten-foot spear pickets curve inward at

the top. Te hospital is not a large central structure as one mightimagine, but rather an assortment of redbrick buildings erected

at the end of the nineteenth century and disseminated in small

clusters across the quiet grounds, as if reflecting the scattered,

huddled psyches of the patients themselves. Tere is a mild sense

of neglect to the property. Te wooden door frames sag like the

spine of an old mare that has been expected to carry too muchweight for far too many years. Te diligent work of the grounds-

keeper is no match for the irrepressible thistles that erupt from

the earth during the warmer months and lay their barbed ten-

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4 John Burley

drils against the base of the edifices, attempting to claim them as

their own. Te metal railings along the outdoor walkways harborminute, jagged irregularities on their surfaces that will cut you if

you run your fingers along them too quickly.

wenty-two miles to the north lies the city of Baltimore, its

beautiful inner harbor and surrounding crime-ridden streets

standing in stark contrast to each other—the ravages of poverty,

violence, and drug addiction flowing like a river of human despair

into some of the finest medical institutions in the world. Among

them is Te Johns Hopkins Hospital where I received my medical

training. Ironic how, after all these years, the course of my career

would take me here, so close to my starting point—as if the dis-

tance between those two places was all that was left to show for

the totality of so much time, effort, and sacrifice. And why not?

At the beginning of our lives the world stretches out before us

with infinite possibility—and yet, what is it about the force of

nature, or the proclivities within ourselves, that tend to anchor us

so steadfastly to our origins? One can travel to the Far East, study

particle physics, get married, raise a child, and still . . . in all that

time we’re never too far from where we first started. We belong

to our past, each of us serving it in our own way, and to breakthe tether between that time and the present is to risk shattering

ourselves in the process.

Herein lies the crux of my profession as a psychiatrist. Life

takes its toll on the mind as well as the body, and just as the

body will react and sometimes succumb to forces acting upon

it, so too will the mind. Tere are countless ways in which it canhappen: from chemical imbalances to childhood trauma, from

genetic predispositions to the ravages of guilt regarding actions

past, from fractures of identity to a general dissociation from

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  The Forgetting Place 5

the outside world. For most patients, treatment can occur in

an outpatient setting—in an office or a clinic—and while it istrue that short-term hospitalization is sometimes required, with

proper medical management and compliance patients can be ex-

pected to function in the community and thereby approach some

semblance of stability and normality. Tis is how it is for the

majority—the lucky ones, whose illnesses have not claimed them

completely—but it is not the case for the patients here. oo ill to

be released into the public, or referred by the judicial system after

being found either incompetent to stand trial or not responsible

by reason of insanity, Menaker houses the intractably psychiat-

rically impaired. It is not a forgotten place, but it is a place for

forgetting—the crimes committed by its patients settling into

the dust like the gradual deterioration of the buildings them-

selves.

Te word asylum has long since fallen into disfavor to describe

institutions such as this. It conjures up images of patients (there

was a time when they were once referred to as lunatics) shackled

to concrete slabs in small dingy cells, straining at their chains

and cackling madly into the darkness. o admit that we once

treated those with mental illness in such a way makes all hu-manity cringe, and therefore one will no longer find “asylums” for

such individuals, but rather “hospitals.” And yet, for places like

Menaker, I’ve always preferred the original term. For although

we attempt to treat the chronically impaired, much of what we

offer here is protection—an asylum from the outside world.

Some of this, perhaps, is too bleak—too fatalistic. It discountsthe aspirations and capabilities of modern medicine. But it is im-

portant to understand from the beginning what I am trying to

say. Tere are individuals here who will never leave—who will

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6 John Burley

never reside outside of these grounds. Teir pathology runs too

deep. Tey will never be restored to sanity, will never return totheir former lives. And the danger, I am afraid—and the great

tragedy for those who love them—is to cling to the hope that

they will.

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Chapter 2

Y

ou’ve got a visitor,” Marjorie said, smiling over at me from the

nurses’ station.

I glanced toward the intake room. Trough the rectangu-

lar glass pane in the door I could see Paul, one of the orderlies,

ushering in a new patient. A visitor, I thought. One of Marjorie’s

euphemisms.

“Is this going to be one of mine?” I asked, checking the roster

board. I hadn’t been advised of any new admissions.

Marjorie nodded. “I think you should see this one.”

“Did he come with any paperwork?”“Not that I know of.” Marjorie’s eyes were back on the chart in

front of her, her attention elsewhere.

I sighed. Te protocol was that we were to be advised ahead

of time regarding any new transfers to the facility, and that those

transfers should arrive with the appropriate paperwork, includ-

ing a patient history and medical clearance assessment. Patientsweren’t supposed to just show up unannounced, and it irritated

me when that happened. Still, one had to keep in mind that we

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8 John Burley

were dealing with a state bureaucracy here. Nothing really sur-

prised me anymore. I decided not to be a hardnose and to let theadministrative screwup ride for the moment, although I certainly

intended to bring it up with Dr. Wagner later.

Paul had stepped through the door and closed it gently

behind him. He motioned me over, and I walked across the

room to join him.

“What have we got, Paul?”

“Young man to see you,” he said, and we both peered through

the glass at the patient seated in the room beyond.

“What’s his story?” I wanted to know, but Paul shook his head.

“You’ll have to ask him.” Apparently, Paul had no more infor-

mation than Marjorie did.

I pushed through the door. Te patient looked up as I entered,

smiled tentatively at me. His handsome appearance was the first

thing that struck me about him: the eyes pale blue, the face lean

but not gaunt. He had the body of a dancer, slight and lithe, and

there was a certain gracefulness to his movements that seemed

out of place within these walls. A lock of dark black hair fell ca-

sually across his face like a shadow. He was, in fact, beautiful

in a way that men rarely are, and I felt my breath catch a littleas I sat down across from him. I gauged him to be about thirty,

although he could’ve been five years in either direction. Mental

illness has a way of altering the normal tempo of aging. I’ve seen

twenty-two-year-olds who look forty, and sixty-year-olds who

appear as if they’re still trapped in adolescence. Medications have

something to do with it, of course, although I think there’s moreto it than that. In many cases, time simply does not move on for

these people, like a skipping record playing the same stanza over

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  The Forgetting Place 9

and over again. Each year is the same year, and before you know

it six decades have gone by.“I’m Dr. Shields,” I said, smiling warmly, my body bent slightly

toward him in what I hoped would be perceived as an empathic

posture.

“Hello.” He returned my smile, although it seemed that even

my opening introduction pained him in some way.

“What’s your name?” I asked, and again there was that nearly

imperceptible flinch in his expression.

“Jason . . . Jason Edwards.”

“Okay, Jason.” I folded my hands across my lap. “Do you know

why you’re here?”

He nodded. “I’m here to see you.”

“Well . . . me and the rest of your treatment team, yes. But can

you tell me a little bit about the events that brought you here?”

His face fell a little at this, as if it were either too taxing or too

painful to recount. “I was hoping you’d already know.”

“Your records haven’t arrived yet,” I explained. “But we’ll have

time to talk about all this later. For right now, I just wanted to

introduce myself. Once again, my name is Dr. Shields and I’ll be

your treating psychiatrist. We’ll meet once a day for a session,except on weekends. I’ll review your chart and medication list

once they arrive. Paul will show you around the unit and will

take you to your room. Meanwhile, if there’s anything you need

or if you have any other questions, you can ask Paul or one of the

other orderlies. Or let one of the nurses know. Tey can all get in

touch with me if necessary.”I stood up, but hesitated a moment before leaving. He watched

me with an expectant gaze, and despite my better professional

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10 John Burl ey

 judgment, I leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him. “You’re in a safe place now.”He seemed to take my words at face value, trusting without

question, and in the weeks and months to come I would often

look back upon that statement with deep regret, realizing that

nothing could have been further from the truth.